


misplaced

by Arrowsbane



Category: Naruto
Genre: Death, Rebirth, i don't even know what this shit is anymore, it's been sat in my WIP box for at least two years, let's get this shit over with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:59:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrowsbane/pseuds/Arrowsbane
Summary: Dying is painful. So is being Reborn.Uzumaki Azami fell during the Second Shinobi War, only to start life anew as Uchiha Takara during the Warring Clans Era.In a world where women are a lesser species, a girl with a warrior’s soul is left with a desperate need to survive.





	misplaced

_mɪsˈpleɪst: [adjective] 1. Incorrectly positioned. 2. Temporarily lost._

* * *

Dying is painful.

She can’t breathe. Her throat has been slit across the trachea, severing the carotid artery. Her own heart will cause her death by driving blood as red as her hair from her body and onto the dry sand with every faltering beat. The sun rolls down heat in heavy waves toward the ground and her mouth feels dry; every muscle screaming with pain as her chakra begins to flicker and her body fails. Dark spots cloud her sight and she fights the losing battle for consciousness.

As she slips into death she can hear her opponents’ pleased chuckle.

“Stupid bitch,” the Sand nin says, “should have run while you had the chance.”

Yes, maybe she should have run. But why would she? She is, _was,_ Uzumaki Azami and she bows, _bowed_ , to no man.

Her last regret is that the plea for help will not reach Konoha in time to save Uzushio.

And then she is gone.

* * *

Being born – sorry, reborn - is painful.

She can’t breathe, her lungs aren’t inflating the way they should. Its darkness and cold air and sudden bright light in her underdeveloped eyes. Grating sounds and breathy whispers that assault her newborn ears. Her weak, tiny chakra flickers like a candle in the wind, so close to stuttering out and leaving her as just yet another lonely, too-small unmarked grave. Then somebody pushes their chakra into her chest and her lungs start to work. She greedily sucks down a lungful of air and begins to cry.

The words are harsh on her ears and she whimpers, trying to understand what is being said.

“It’s a girl, Lord Tajima.” A woman’s voice says, and she feels a flutter of fear at the overwhelming body of chakra that enters to room – this is a shinobi to be feared.

The shinobi hums contemplatively before taking her in his arms and staring down at her with dark eyes that turn red, marked with black and she feels fear more overwhelming than when she realized she was dying.

She knows what those eyes mean.

Uchiha.

_Shit._

* * *

In the end, it is her brothers who name her.

“Uchiha Takara. Our most precious treasure,” Madara whispers to Izuna as they stare down at their little sister held tightly in Kenta’s arms. Beside them, Arata peers down at the tiny form with a concerned frown. The elder siblings are born first for a reason – to protect those who come after.

Their father could care less for the infant that took his wife from him, especially considering that the infant in question is a weak and pathetic girl whose only use will be in bearing another Uchiha as many children as she can. So caring for Takara falls to a wet nurse and her brothers who only leave her side to train, eat and sleep – and later take missions.

* * *

She learns to walk sooner than is normal, can read before she even sees her first word thanks to her memories of Azami. When she speaks, it is in a soft and lilting tone, sweet like a small bird. Her brothers adore her, and spend every moment they can spare with her. Each of her brothers, and she has four, enjoy doing different things with her when Tajima is away and unable to scold them for being soft with her.

Kenta likes to read to her in the quiet evenings, when the sun is setting and during the day, he takes her by the hand and patiently waits for her to take step after step on unsteady, wobbly legs. Arata is the one who spends hours telling her about all the different purposes that herbs can have in healing, and how to move quietly and smoothly across the wooden floors. Madara hums softly and curls up with her for naps under warm blankets.

Izuna is the one who is captivated by her hair – the smooth inky strands that for some insane reason stick up wildly around the crown of her head, but curl once they begin to grow past her shoulders. He spends hours combing her hair, trying to tame it into submission. It is this that prompts Takara to locate a mirror the first chance she has, because now she is curious about the face she wears in this life.

Gone are the luminous violet eyes she was so familiar with; gone is the skin tanned from hours dancing over the waves under the bright sun; gone is the brilliant red hair that once cascaded over her shoulders in an unruly mess, stretching to her hips in a vibrant display of color – although perhaps that is a good thing because it was as vivid as blood.

Instead her skin is pale like the moon, her hair as black as night - just like all the other Uchiha. Her eyes… Her eyes are not pitch dark like her brothers, and now she knows why Taijima looks uneasy whenever he sees her face. Her eyes are the perfect shade of amber, almost orange in the right lighting – an unnatural shade almost reminiscent of the portraits of the great nine-tailed fox that hang in most of the temples located in the Land of Fire.

When she bares her sharp little teeth at the mirror, just for a moment, she can see the ferocity that Azami used to exude in battle, and then she is once more just another little girl pulling faces in the mirror. It’s enough to make anybody mopey, and so she broods with great aplomb.

“You call that fierce?” She jumps a foot when she hears Kenta’s voice from behind her. When did he-?

“Uuh?” She replies, putting on the cute-adorable-look-at-me-butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression that always gets her out of trouble.

“C’mon kiddo,” Her brother says, grinning wildly as he steers her back to face the mirror, “Show me your war face!” She blinks in surprise, and then screws her face up in an approximation of a fierce dragon.

“I think my bunny slippers just ran for cover.” Arata says unimpressed, walking in on them with Madara and Izuna trailing behind, covered in dirt from a spar. Azami glowers at him, and when Izuna snickers, she full on snarls – pointy little teeth and all.

“There you _go!_ ” Kenta says, beaming. “That’s my girl. Look at you all ready to tear someone’s throat out.” He seems honestly pleased with her intent-to-kill and it throws her for a second. This isn’t normal.

It’s around about that time when she realizes exactly what clusterfuck she has been reborn into. The Warring Clans Era… roughly about fifty years and two shinobi wars before her last life.

 _Double shit_.

* * *

She is a girl, and so she cannot become a shinobi like the men. It is her job to clean the house, cook the food and wash the clothes. It is her job to bow her head to every man she meets and look pretty. Had she been born without the memories of a most painful death, perhaps she would have acquiesced without a second thought.

But she is born with the raging spirit of Uzumaki Azami inside her – a woman grieving for her people and furious at her own death. She is born with the knowledge of a thousand seals and jutsu inside her, she is born to wield a blade as keenly as her own chakra and she’ll die a second death before she bows to anyone.

So she waits, patiently and quietly in the shadows. She cooks, and she cleans, and she inclines her head. But inside her, the Kunoichi stirs, and in the darkness she carefully paints kanji after kanji onto her pale skin – hidden on the soles of her feet and on the inside of her thighs where nobody will have the chance to spot the tiny inked characters.

She crafts resistance seals that will adjust gradually over time – seals that will train her muscles for her as if she were running great distances every day like her brothers.

She paints chakra seals – siphoning off as much as they can every day, encouraging her body to produce more and more instead of withering away like a civilian, yet still hiding the ever-growing strength from her father.

She draws storage seals and carefully hides away ever loose kunai she finds, every coil of wire or bottle of poison, every blade and whetstone – and in the dark of the night she trains her body to hit the target with the senbon she has secreted away, and organizes her arsenal into scrolls before hiding them away in her own skin.

This time, she promises herself, she will be prepared. Seals cannot grant her proficiency in taijutsu, or make her a combat specialist, but she can damn well trap the every-living fuck out of whatever area she finds herself in and run like hell. It isn’t about winning anymore, it’s about survival – and Uchiha Takara refuses to lay down and die.

* * *

She’s about six by the time her chakra reserves have grown enough strong enough from the constant draining to support a shadow clone, and it’s a good thing because all the chakra in the world cannot help her if she does not have _control._ She sneakily performs the jutsu every time the women gather to wash the clothes in the river and sends it off to do her chores and sit through the inane gossip shared by other girls her age, and then scampers off downriver to stick leaves and tiny pebbles to her skin.

She’s proud enough to say that she’s progressed well enough to climb the trees with ease and is now working on her stamina and walking on water. A bubbling section of the river that sits just before a still area is perfect for refining her control.

She leaves her heavier outer-kimono folded neatly on the bank along with a small bag containing dumplings for later, and then steps carefully, but shakily, onto the surface of the river, brows creased in concentration. She’s almost halfway across, and excited over her new personal best when she is interrupted.

“What are you doing?” The voice breaks through her concentration and sends her crashing through the surface of the water, sputtering and flailing in the icy cold river until she gets her bearings and pushes up towards the bank.

“What does it look like?” She snaps angrily, the meek persona she so-carefully wears for her kin is nowhere in sight.

“Drowning,” The droll voice replies, and Takara pushes wet hair out of her eyes in order to see the boy it belongs to. His eyes are as red as the Sharingan, and his hair as white as the bleached sea shells that would wash up on the beaches of Uzushio. He wears simple clothes in a lazy, yet elegant manner and she can see the faint outline of weapons hidden beneath the fabrics. Shinobi, she decides and mentally calculates how quickly she can release the seals and bolt – just in case.

“Well then you’re blind,” she declares angrily, wringing out the soft – and now soaking – kimono she is wearing.

“Or maybe you just suck at chakra control.” He snarks back, and then tilts his head before adding:

“Why do you bother anyway? It’s not like a girl can be a shinobi.” Anger wells up inside her and she has to resist hurling a hefty pebble at his head.

“I can be anything I want to be,” She declared fiercely. “It’s none of your business anyway. You’re not my father!” His eyes sharpen with curiosity, and she wants to kick herself. Dammit.

The two children eye each other from across the river for a moment before he tilts his head and snorts softly.

“Who are you?” he asks her, and she’s taken aback.

She can’t say she’s Uchiha Takara, not when the Clan has enemies. She doesn’t feel like a treasure anyway, no matter what her brothers say. She’s a fighter, a warrior, born to tear the world apart and shape it anew in her own vision. She’s not Uzumaki Azami either, the girl not quite grown who died on the burning sands so far from home.

But maybe… just maybe, she can be just Azami. _Thistle-flower._ It’s more like a title now anyway, in honor of a life lost while trying to carry a desperate message to an ally who most likely arrived too late, if at all. Yes, she can be Azami. She can carry the name again. She won’t lose this time.

“Azami.” She tells him, holding her head up and rolling her shoulders back. “I am Azami.”

“You can call me Tobi,” the red-eyed boy says, looking more than a little bored.

“I’d rather call you Asshole,” she says before she can stop herself and her glares at her.

“What?” He yelps angrily.

“You distracted me!” She cries indignantly, “I almost had it down. Only an asshole would have distracted a Lady while she was perfecting something.”

“You’re no lady.” He grumbles, shifting his weight on the riverbank. This time she does throw the pebble at him, and it ricochets of his head before he can blink, losing his balance and stumbling back to fall on his arse.

“Wench,” he snaps, rubbing the angry-red mark on his forehead.

“Moron.”

“Brat.”

“Jackass.”

“Shorty.”

“Weiner.”

“What’s a weiner?” He says suddenly, and they blink at each other for a moment. It’s ridiculous really.

“I’m not actually sure,” she admits, flopping back onto the bank and poking at the soft silt with a stick.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He asks curiously, watching her draw in the dirt.

“I _was_ working on my chakra control,” she says, “before you distracted me.” Then she blinks and stares at him suspiciously. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Following my brother,” he tells her, shrugging. “He’s an idiot.”

“So are mine. They keep trying to wrap me in cotton wool.”

“What’s cotton wool? And why would the wrap you in it?” He looks so puzzled that she has to fight not to laugh.

“It’s a saying. Like, they’re over-protective.” She explains when she remembers that cotton wool hasn’t been invented yet, and he nods in understanding.

“Isn’t that their job?” He asks. “Older siblings are supposed to look after younger siblings.”

“I don’t need to be saved,” She tells him stubbornly, “I can rescue myself.”

It’s the truth. She’s nobodies Princess.

* * *

It is a cold day, at the end of November – dry, brown leaves crunch underfoot; the trees are bare skeletons as the wind whistles through the branches, causing them to creak as they move - even at the heart of Fire Country. She is seven years old, and burying Arata who died too young, too soon. Arata who was kind, Arata who taught her about herbs and how to move around without a sound and how to hold a kunai, Arata who pulled faces to make her laugh as a child…

Arata who had wanted to heal the world is now cold and lifeless, six feet below the solid earth – forever frozen at the age of twelve while above him, in the land of the living, time moves on without him. The seasons will change – winter to spring and so forth, and even though she only had a short time with him, Azami will never forget him.

* * *

She meets Tobi again when she is eight, and it is the same day that Izuna comes home tattling on Madara for being friends with a Senju. (Lucky bastard – she wishes that she had found the Senju first, then maybe she could have caused some chaos.)

She’s by the riverside again and now she’s happily running along the river’s surface, breaking suddenly in order to glide along smoothly and feel the wind in her hair.

When Tobi finally shows up, it is with a frown on his face. He’s also favoring his left leg.

She frowns, but keeps her mouth shut. Empathy is not something she can afford anymore.

* * *

She is ten years old the first time she overhears the clan elders broach the topic of an arranged marriage for her. Internally, Azami snorts at the ridiculous idea. She has no desire to bow and scrape like a meek and subservient Uchiha wife is expected to. She never had the chance to fall in love in her last life, and this time she doesn’t want to miss out.

[She wants a challenge – a man who can meet her eyes on the battlefield and admire her strength. She wants a man who will respect her wild nature and not see her as an animal to tame, or a bird to lock in a cage. She wants passion that burns like a wildfire, and a steady love that flows tirelessly like a river.

She wants somebody who can be the moon to her sun, and help her raise children who will be their stars -  little diamond glimmers that will grow into their own, shining brightly against the dark navy sky that is the tapestry of life.]

The conversation eventually turns to the ever-ongoing feud with the dread Senju (and privately Azami is tempted to run off and find said Senju if only to spite Tajima) and so she hears little more about an impending marriage.

At twelve and a half, not long after she has ‘flowered’ as the women call it - she is summoned before the Elders and Tajima, who inform that she is to wed to another Uchiha in a few short months. Her betrothed, Kaiju, is five years older than her and a bully of a man. His eyes are cold and merciless, she sees no kindness in his heart and knows that he would not be a good husband.

She knows instinctively that this is the kind of man who will not allow her to grow, but will keep her locked away from the sun, bearing child after child for him – by force if necessary, and she will not go to his bed willingly – until her body gives out. Then he would cast her aside and take a younger mistress into his bed, shaming her without a care.

But she will not go gently.

The months before the wedding, she contents herself with her midnight practice and suffers the endless tea ceremonies and kimono-fittings during the day. She is the perfect, dutiful daughter of the clan head, fulfills every obligation with the grace and poise of a full-grown woman. She puts up with the gossip and chatter from the mother of the groom, Uchiha Kaede - and she feels a little guilty for the heartbreak she intends to cause the woman.

The day of the wedding dawns bright and clear, and she is chivvied from her warm bed, past the scowls of her elder brothers who dislike her husband-to-be, and the disapproving glower of Taijima who is more than happy to sell her off - to a purification bath. Tradition dictates that the bride must be pure and untainted by sweat or dirt on her wedding night in order to please the gods - or some such drivel, which makes her want to vomit. Then, once she is clean and dry, and wrapped in a soft linen robe, her face – which is still slightly round with childhood, is painted with white powder, dark kohl and red tint for her eyes and lips. Her body is swathed in delicately embroidered silk and ribbons.

Then she’s paraded before the clan like a trophy, and perhaps as the only daughter of the clan head, to Kaiju and his parents, she is one. Then she is led into the shrine and deposited at Kaiju’s side in front of the priest and then led through a series of vows – each of which she carefully files away inside her mind, gleefully delighted by the gaping loopholes in the words. She vows to honor and obey, vows to be bound to him for life with her head tilted downwards and a soft carefully-tailored smile upon her lips that conceals the wicked glint in her eyes. She drinks from the cup, and then follows her new husband home.

It is a simple matter to lace Kaiju’s evening drink with busu, dried and powdered aconite, before he can drag her into the marriage bed – although she has to suffer his inelegant pawing at her clothes and still undefined waistline before it eventually takes effect.  It is not a kind or easy death, and she while she takes little glee in Kaiju’s pain – she cannot suppress the feeling of victory as he writhes on the wooden floorboards, the life slowly fading from his eyes.

In life, it is a game of survival of the fittest survives, and she is not the one gasping for breath.

That morning may have been bright and fortuitous, but only death comes to the home of the new couple that night. The next day, Kaiju’s mother wails with grief while a calm and unruffled Uchiha Takara sips tea delicately from a bone-white cup, looking immaculate in her carefully-kept kimono.

Such a pity really - they should have bound her with stronger ties than a simple promise to be wed so long as they _both_ should live. Forget diamonds, loopholes are a woman’s best friend.

Her father grunts angrily, and the Elders eye her warily as Kaede has to be restrained from flinging herself at the newly widowed teenager, screaming and raging over the loss of the monster that she called her precious son.

“Good job,” whispers a voice in her ear, and she looks up to see Madara watching the scene with amusement in his eyes from where he stands next to Kenta and Izuna. It is her first kill in this life, and she preens happily under her brothers’ approval.

The pretty little flower that is Uchiha Tajima’s only daughter has poisonous thorns – it is only fair that those who attempt to pluck her get cut.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing anymore.
> 
> Send help.


End file.
